


These Kind of Dreams

by grumblebee



Series: Shimmer Me This [1]
Category: Turn - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Dry Humping, Lap Dances, M/M, Sexual Tension, big spender!George, catching feels, glitter coated feelings, stripper!Ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 14:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8331526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/pseuds/grumblebee
Summary: Ben knows exactly how to work his job. He creates fantasies, lets men indulge in them, and pockets the cash. It's a role of flirting and flattery;one he fills out extremely well. But when a new customer comes into his club, Ben finds him to be as intriguing as he is lucrative.





	

Seven o’clock, Thursday night and the vanity lights are turned up just a touch too high. Ben felt himself sweating as he applied his make-up before it, the thumping base of club music muffled beyond the dressing room doors. It's a mess of glitter, scarves and props, of bodies pressing close to shimmy to their vanities between songs, and cash stacks being banded before clock out.

“Ben! Night shift treating you well?” Ben spared a glance in the mirror. A lanky man stood behind him, zipping his coat up over a muscle tank top, face spattered in freckles and glitter. A duffle bag sits next to him, the shimmery fabric of tights peeking out from a gap in the zipper.

“It's fucking with my eyes, Laurens. My sleep schedule is crazy. Good tips, though.” Ben laughs, powdering down the shine on his nose. Lauren's huffs dramatically, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“More like _fantastic_ tips. Thursday night is banker night. Those suits love a show. You think you're making good tips now, but I’m telling you, they'll go crazy if you get that pretty pink dick of yours out.” Ben turned, slapping Lauren's with the powderpuff.

“ _Show_ being the operative word. You've seen me on a pole, I’m horrible. I’ll stick to lap dances and host duty, thanks.” Ben clipped. As much as he’d love to make stage money--and boy, has he seen some guys rake it in-- he knew his physical limits. In someone’s lap he was powerful. He could move with them, respond to their desires and make each experience worth the wad of cash they were dropping on him. The pole was intimidating; the thing itself was rigid and (obviously) unresponsive. The audience was varied. So many people with different wants and needs, and only him on stage to satisfy it; it all just slipped through his fingers like sand.

“Watch the jacket, Tallmadge! I try not to have _everything_ I own covered in makeup and glitter.” Laurens cried, scrubbing at the pale circle of powder on the dark fabric. It spread, leaving a dull faded patch across his chest. “Wow, asshole. Is that what they teach you at Yale?” He mumbled, searching his duffle for a wet wipe. Ben returned to the mirror as Laurens fixed his jacket.

“No, I learned that from Alex.” Ben said. He runs the mascara wand over his lashes, jiggling it a bit as he brushes upward. Long, dark lashes, and a little smudged eyeliner went a long way. He had spent a lifetime being complimented on his eyes, so it was no surprise that he put in the effort to make them pop. Something extra to sell those big, expressive looks and rake in a little more dough. He had long since abandoned lipstick, finding himself in the mirror fixing it more than he wished to. Just a dab of clear gloss, to catch the strobing lights, did the trick. His patrons would stare slack jawed as he worked them over, eyes lingering hungrily over the shine on his lower lip. And a little tube lasted a good while--bargains for him.

Laurens had finished meticulously cleaning the powder off, tossing the used wipe into the wastebasket. “I’m off. Make those stacks, honey. Tell Alex I said ‘ _Go fuck yourself’_ ” he said with a wave, heading out of sight. Ben smiled as Laurens’ reflection popped back into the edge of the mirror. “And maybe a kiss, if you're up for it”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get out of here.” Ben joked, waving Laurens off as he left out the back door.

“Ok fellas, five minute warning for night shift”

Ben stood and went to the full length mirror for a once over. Blonde hair ruffled and moussed, a touch too long so that the rebellious strands landed at the peak of his cheekbones. His cheeks accented with a special highlighter he had received for his birthday, it's pearlescent shimmer great for catching the lights. He drew it over his collarbones, and down the center of his chest, where it disappeared into his black mesh tank top.

Suit night meant big money, so Ben brought out his favorite item; tight, mermaid scale booty shorts. He ran a hand over the ass, smoothing down the scales so all the turquoise sides faced up. He then quickly ran his fingers back over it, leaving gold rake marks across the cheeks. _These_ were the good shorts. People loved watching how the fabric changed color as he rubbed his ass over them. The ensemble was completed with fishnets, tucked under the shorts, and the sparkliest pair of combat boots he's ever seen. The guys made fun of him, but they looked good and they were comfortable as _hell._

He looked _good._ With only three minutes to spare, he shoved his makeup bag back in his duffle, taking out a little perfume to apply to his pulse points.

“Come on guys, the last are clocking out. Start moving.”

* * *

Thursday night delivered as promised. Ben was greeted with a club full of patrons as he hit the floor. Businessmen, mostly from the financial district, flooding in to spend a big bucks and get their ego stroked. They ordered bottles, lap dances, and crowded the stage to throw whatever bills they had on hand. The longer the night, the wilder things gof. Some get loose enough to throw hundreds, and while the other dancers have learned to smile and laugh when they brag about it--Ben has not. But Alex has.

“Alex!”

Ben tapped him as he passed,carrying a tray piled high with vodka bottles and mixers. “Go fuck yourself.” He said, deadpan, before blowing a kiss to him. Alex sighed.

“God, I miss Laurens. Doesn't he know night classes inconvenience me? Boo.” He shifted the tray, the bottles of Grey Goose tinkling together. “I got a huge booth tonight. Some dudes celebrating a launch.”

“You gonna listen in?” Ben asked coyly.

Alex puffed his chest out. “Of course. Sit in their lap and these idiots will tell you anything. Because what do I know? _I’m just an itty bitty stripper_ ” he laughed, putting on his baby voice. Ben laughed as he walked away, hips swaying as he placed the tray down at a booth full of rowdy guys loosening their ties.

Alex was the only other person there who attended a big name college. He was cunning, bold, and not afraid to use anything as a weapon. Unlike Ben, he preferred hosting for businessmen. They would talk about their financial conquests, their insider tips and investments, all loudly in front of a man they thought beneath them because he was grinding in their lap. But Alex _always_ listens. And he understands. Their tips go directly to his stockbroker. Ben is convinced Alex makes just as much as any man in that booth.

Working the floor is a routine. If Ben isn't hosting a group of guys, or a wayward bachelorette party, he’s taking drinks or giving dances. It's become second nature to hone in on who wants him, and who is just ogling his get-up as he struts by. Most of the faces are familiar; vague features belonging to some man named Tom, and his colleagues whose names are either John, James, Steven, Peter, Robert or any combination of worn out names. They all look the same, act the same, and take their “unique” drink orders the same. It's Ben’s job to cater to the fantasy that they're different. He hands them their whiskey and pretends he's never seen a man drink it neat before. He listens with wide eyes as they explain how ice dilutes its unique flavor. He lets them feel special as they order him a fruity drink (which always comes to him non-alcoholic) and he sips it while coyly commenting on how he likes things sweet. He sits in their lap, spends a song or two carding his fingers through their hair as they grip the chair, and then collects his money and leaves with a smile--sharing only flirty winks as he passes them throughout the evening.

It’s table like this that Ben found himself at when he made eye contact with someone across the club. He placed the drink tray down, handing each gentlemen their glass as they shower him with compliments.

“I like your shorts, cutie. How old are you?”

“Aww, thank you! I’m 21” That's a lie, he's 23 and almost graduating, but they like the idea of 21. One man eyes him up and down over the rim of his glass, while the other smiles up at him warmly.

“That's cute! Do anything special for the big 21?”

Ben shrugged, biting his lip. “Friends and I took a trip to Vegas” he said cutely. That earned a round of wooing. One man beamed, fishing the orange slice out of his beer. It was a look Ben knew to brace himself for.

“Las Vegas must be some religious pilgrimage for dancers, eh?” Ben laughed, and was surprised it sounded just like he had practiced.

“That's me; hands and knees and tequila shots.” He quipped back. The other three men went wild, shaking their friend by the shoulders. One man slipped Ben a $20, smiling.

“He's an ass. I'm glad you had a good birthday.” Ben pocketed the cash, returning the smile.

“Thank you, honey. You boys let me know if you need anything, ok?” Ben picked up the menu and turned to leave, catching the eye of a stranger across the club. It takes a moment for Ben to register that he’s the one being watched, when there were four or five other servers flitting back and forth between them. But as he made his way towards the bar, the man turned casually to check him out. If he'd been watching this long, waiting for Ben to finish up a table, he was worth a shot.

Ben crossed the club, swaying his hips slightly to the thumping bass line of the music. He stops to say hello to a table, asking if their drinks were ok, if they were having fun. But he keeps watch on the stranger out of the corner of his eye. He’s definitely interested; he's straightened up in his seat, hands fidgeting with the glass in his hand, eyes looking to make contact.

And so Ben does. He glances over, sharing a moment with the man looking for his attention. He's new; still a businessman, with a fine tailored suit and tie, and he holds himself well. He’s broad shouldered, long legged, with a stern face. But his eyes seem kind, and Ben doesn't get a pang of dread sharing this glance with him. Admittedly, he's handsome, and Ben finds himself smiling before he even needs to. The man smiles back slightly, his eyes breaking from his to study the floor. He's shy. Ben feels more comfortable approaching him.

“Hey cutie, haven't seen you here before.” Ben said. He glances down at the glass, noting it's just below half full. “Are you all good on drinks?” Up close Ben studies the man carefully. Middle aged, a few silver hairs at his temple catching the purple lights of the club. Though apparently not as shy as he thought, the man finds his voice pretty quickly.

“I don't get out much…” he says, his smile returning. “And, yes. Bourbon.” Ben fetches the drink, returning shortly to place it before him. The old glass is drained, and Ben decides to stick around and feel him out.

“What’s your name, cutie?” Ben asks, sitting in the plush chair next to him. The man looks happy, but reluctant to ask for what he wants. From the looks of it he’s flying solo. Most of Ben’s lap dances are ordered by friends of the patrons, giddily shoving cash at him while pointing at the man they most wish to see him straddle. To ask for one alone sometimes took a little encouragement.

“I’m George.” He turned to better face Ben. “And you are?”

“Oh, I’m Ben.” This part of the routine was easy for Ben. There was a whole list of questions he had squirreled away for clients like this. In a few minutes, George was no longer a stranger. He was a businessman, he worked for a company downtown. Ben sussed out that his favorite drink was bourbon, and that he was an avid museum goer. His posture relaxed, and became more friendly. Ben took to putting his hand on his thigh, feeling the muscle below the wool suit.

Surprisingly, he didn't need to stroke his ego. He was confident, and what Ben took as shyness turned out to be a quiet demeanor. There was a genuine quality to his voice, and he talked to Ben as he would any other person on the street. He didn't make an effort to dumb down his vernacular, or up it to impress him. It wasn't as though Ben hadn't had clients like this before, but it was especially refreshing tonight.

George reached for the wallet in his breast pocket. “How much would it be to enjoy a song with you, Ben?” He asked. Ben tucked a wayward strand of hair behind his ears.

“One song is $40, sweetie. We can start when this one ends.” General rule was that each song lasted about 4 minutes, and Ben wanted to make sure this one got his full attention. George leaned back in his chair as the last chords of the song played, eyeing Ben as he sat back in his lap.

Ben felt his heart skip a beat as he settled onto George’s lap. It was silly, but his lap was just...perfect. He was tall, and his thighs just thick and muscular enough to give Ben a warm, solid place to dance on. He didn't fear sliding off, or tilting too far--in fact he was a little thrilled to begin.

The song started up, it’s beat whirring up as he began to roll his hips over George’s thighs. During his time at the club Ben had learned when he was going to have a responsive patron, and the little gasp George let out was the perfect starting pistol. He let George take him in, eyes on the small of his back, watching his slender waist sway, and the scales on his shorts change from blue to gold as he ground up against his lap. Ben allowed himself to close his eyes, the music sinking in as he rubbed up against him.

_You've got to press it on you_

_You just think it_

_That’s what you do, baby_

It didn't take too long for Ben to feel George pressing hard against his ass. He rose from his lap briefly, hands falling to his shoulders as he straddled him better. Ben _lived_ for this moment. The telltale bump as he grazed over someone’s crotch, watching as their face melted into some blissed out expression as he writhed to the music.

George didn't disappoint; his gaze slowly moved across Ben, taking in every tiny detail. It started in his lap, where he watched as Ben rubbed up against him. He then trailed up, pausing at the rolling motion of his stomach, and once more at his nipples showing through the fine mesh. Like so many before, his gaze stopped at his lips, admiring the alluring shine dabbed on. Ben parted his lips slightly, showing off how neatly his plump lips worked with the sticky gloss. George wet his lips, watching intently.

Ben took his interest as an opportunity to run his hands up into George’s hair, fingers rubbing lovely circles into the scalp. George responded with a low hum, eyes moving up to meet Ben’s. They were warm and expressive; fond appreciation as Ben ruffled his hair and spread an ungodly amount of glitter on his fine suit.

It was the fine touches that made men melt underneath Ben; whether it be his fingers through their hair, or the way he pressed close enough for them to smell his perfume, all men crumbled at some point. For George it was eye contact. Long, lusty stares, broken only by the batting of dark lashes. He looked captivated, eyes half lidded as his mind drifted to untold fantasies about the man in his lap. Ben admired the fine blush spreading over his cheeks, and the way he shuddered each time Ben slowly rolled over his cock.

And just like that, it was over. The song ended, and Ben slipped out of their little moment, feeling just a bit flustered himself as he switched gears. George opened his wallet, fishing through a couple of bills before pulling three out. Payment and a tip.

Ben slid off his lap, smiling sweetly as he took the cash, small talking as he checked the amount. Two twenties on top for his dance, and a crisp hundred hiding behind them.

“Oh!” Ben said, faltering for just a bit. George smiled, returning to his bourbon.

“You were really good. And thank you...for being so patient with me. I know I'm not the most thrilling company” Ben couldn't help but blush just a tiny bit at the way he smiled.

“Believe me, you were fantastic company. And I’m not just saying that because of the tip.” He joked, nudging George playfully. George laughed, looking Ben up and down once more.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

The rest of the evening went smoothly, though Ben kept an eye on George as he went about his rounds. He was a good guest by all accounts. Soon after his lap dance with Ben he made his way towards the stage, taking a seat around the platform. He tipped each and every dancer, and Ben each time he bought a drink. Three bourbons in he switched to soda, a stark comparison to the ever growing crowd of rowdy businessmen drinking straight from the bottle. By around midnight he departed, and Ben paced through the last three hours of his shift without the pleasant chatter George had shared as he handed off each drink.

3 a.m., the dressing room is full of weary dancers and hosts packing it in for the night. Ben divvies his cut from the dances, still happy with the surplus of tips he received from that night. He smoothed out the fistful of crumpled bills, arranging them to count.

“Ben! Fantastic night!” Alex had returned, fanning himself with a menu. “A little pushy, but I got some juicy info.” From the other side of the room came another voice.

“I _saw_ you with that booth from the stage. Those guys were really partying. You too, Ben, busy bee.”

“Nice set, Gilbert.” Ben said, slipping off his shorts and fishnets in exchange for some comfy sweat pants. Gilbert ran a hand through his hair, a trickle of glitter escaping. He had already changed, and was storing his tips in his duffle.

“ _Ben,_ that adorable thing you were talking to all night is a handsome tipper. He gave me $50 after my set.” Gilbert said, waving the bill between his fingers. Ben smiled, feeling a little special.

“I know. He gave me $100 for the dance. And $5-10 on each drink” he added, trying not to sound too smug about it. Gilbert crammed the $50 into his duffle, playfully feigning annoyance.

“Our little Ben has an admirer! Must have gotten him nice and tipsy to keep those drinks coming.” Gilbert laughed. Ben stooped down to lace up his sneakers, fighting the blush rising to his cheeks.

“Admirer, no. And actually, he was mostly ordering cokes by the end. Everyone around him was sloshed in comparison.”

Alex huffed, slipping on a ratty old hoodie. “Mhm, right. He doesn't like you-- and you made $200 off him, dead sober. Now’s not the time to be humble, Ben. Dudes with deep pockets roll through here all the time. Get one who _likes_ you and you're set til the sucker is dry. He at least cute?”

Ben opened his mouth to protest, but Gilbert beat him to it. “ _Very._ Tall, broad shoulders, distinguished. And I didn't get a close look like Ben did.”

Alex pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, sticking one between his lips. “Perfect. The whole Daddy Package. Stroke his ego, fill your pockets, get lost in his eyes a little. No harm, no foul. Let’s go.” He said, the music now off outside their cramped dressing room. Ben followed the two into the night air, zipping up his hoodie as the sweaty warmth of the club was taken away by the impending chill of fall.

“You need a ride?” Gilbert asked. Ben checked his phone, a few texts from Nate indicating he was still up.

“Nah, Nate’s coming.”

Alex lit his cigarette, the orange glow warm and inviting. The breeze picked up, carrying a cloud of smoke into Gilbert’s face. He coughed dramatically, hand waving the offending scent from his person.

“ _Alexander,_ it's disgusting. I swear you’ll be dead before you're 50”

“Good. I'll see your wrinkled ass in hell.” He quipped, fishing for his keys. Ben walked them to their car, where they waited until Nate arrived. A few farewells and Ben was safely buckled in, head pressed up against the cool glass as the soft crackling sound of Nate’s radio filled the silence.

“Classic rock ok?”

“Mmhm”

* * *

George had become a regular, and one of Ben’s favorites. They settled into an unspoken routine whenever he entered the club. George would arrive, taking a seat towards the back. He always came alone, always ordered his first drink without Ben. Once there, he would wait, idly watching the stage, glimpsing Ben as he ushered bottles to and from booths.

Ben enjoyed their little game. He knew he was being watched, that George was waiting patiently for him to mosey over and plop down in his lap. Each table he served edged closer to George. Every customer he flirted with got the overly-sweet persona, save for George--who he would glance at occasionally, lip caught playfully between his teeth as he bat his eyelashes. It was subdued, a little more natural, more _Ben._

Finally, after watching him bend over and stick his ass out for a half hour, Ben would officially greet George. His drink would be freshened and the two would chat, every meeting revealing a little more about their interests. Ben was reluctant to admit it, but he _loved_ talking to George. He was mesmerizing, captivating Ben’s appetite for knowledge with every meeting. The arrangement was rather laughable at first glance, with George and Ben excitedly talking about the Dead Sea Scrolls exhibit, voices raised above thumping club music; but it worked.

Then came their dance. There would be a lull in their conversation, a few moments of silent anticipation where Ben felt the hair on his neck stand up. He was genuinely _excited_ to dance for George. While there _had_ been handsome clients before (some so hot Ben had to freshen up after) this felt different. In George’s lap Ben felt invincible. Each little gasp and moan drove him further than anyone he had danced for before. The music would begin, and Ben would let his eyes slide close, hips rolling slowly over George almost tenderly. He grew to love the feeling of his cock pressing through his slacks, and sought it out, grinding over and over until his own shorts felt tight and uncomfortable.

Facing George was even more rewarding. He melted like butter, head falling back into Ben’s palms as he gently tugged at those locks. Every look was lingering, as if memorizing the fine details of Ben’s body as he wriggled in his lap. It was intoxicating, it was powerful, and Ben was being _paid_ to enjoy it this much. As they ended their dance the payment would be exchanged, the tips growing more and more generous with each passing visit.

It was clear that Ben had become George’s favorite too. While he still visited the stage, tipping each dancer $20-50 until he left, he only ordered dances from Ben. His drinks as well. Every visit and wink was greeted with light hearted conversation, and a crisp bill for his time. But Ben, still with one humble bone left in his body, didn't try to milk it. He kept their meetings natural, avoiding abusing George’s generous nature. This was met by handsomer tips, handed over as George was bold enough to order more than one dance a night from him.

Sitting on his bed after work Ben flipped through his tips sorting out the mess of bills. The stacks had become much thicker since meeting George, and Ben had become curious as to just how much the man was investing in him. He separated the cash, the crisp bills handed to him by George dogeared. He counted, then double counted, and then a third time out of disbelief. $680, tonight alone, from George.

Ben felt amazed, yet a little guilty at the sum. He could hardly see how someone like him was worth the cash. A few lap dances, some conversation; for most of his clients this was all part of a fantasy he was selling. The one where he is a bombshell boy, who likes to stroke egos and receive child-explanations on subjects he's aced ten times over. And yet his dynamic with George is different. They talk like old friends, excitedly trading stories and plans for the weekend. It was cozy and familiar. It wasn't an act.

The money was saved away, out of sight and out of mind, where it couldn't guilt Ben. It _shouldn't_ guilt Ben. He earned it. He worked for it just like with any other client. It did him little use at night, though, when his shift would end and he would crawl into his cold bed.

Ben would stare at the ceiling and think of George. Imagining his large hands on his waist, guiding him over the bulge in his pants. The two working up speed, George reciprocating his movements, hips rolling and rubbing together deliciously. Ben fantasized about unzipping his pants, taking a taste of the cock he had practically memorized every week. And soon he would drift to sleep, where his dreams were a barrage of images; bare chests, bare thighs, rough kisses and nails raking over the broad shoulders poised above him. Panting and moaning, Ben would wake to find his bed empty, and his boxers pitifully ruined.

* * *

_[Treat day. Can you pick up something from the farmers market? - Nate]_

_[Something *good*. Not those vegan carrot cookies. Don't screw me, Tallmadge ;) -Nate]_

Ben rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he scrolled through the messages. He let out a soft chuckle, tapping out a quick response.

_[A dozen vegan carrot cookies. Got it. -Ben]_

Treat day mornings were gentler than most. It was a blissful day where Ben had no place to be. No school, no work, and a well deserved break from his regimen at the gym. It was a chance to catch up on sleep, and wake up at noon feeling like a half decent human being.

Ben stripped off his boxers, hopping in the shower. He took his time, scrubbing himself pink until most of the glitter from his last shift circled the drain. He exfoliated, deep conditioned, and tried his damn hardest to wash away the residual eyeliner still clinging beneath his eye. Ben had silently resigned that he would always have permanent raccoon eyes.

Lazy and happy, Ben toweled off, quickly wringing out his hair before throwing on his Yale hoodie and sweatpants. October had arrived, and Ben was greeted by the mouthwatering smell of hot cider as he entered the market. He was a sucker, he couldn't resist--but he had enough self control to buy a nice treat to share with Nate before blowing more cash on that sweet liquid gold.

Nate’s request had been a tall order, with almost everything looking too good to pass up. Fresh baked muffins sat next to flaky pastries drizzled with glaze. Ben strolled past the carts, stopping to chat with the vendors about their newest selection, trying samples of jams and things he was sure to stock up on. After careful consideration Ben purchased two personal pies; cherry for Nate, blueberry crumble for himself. The warm, buttery smell wafting from his canvas bag was rivaled only by the scent of hot cider-- his reward for a job well done.

Ben had placed his order, and eagerly accepted the steamy cup in his cold hands when he heard it. A warm, familiar voice from over his shoulder.

“Billy, can I have a quart of the chilled cider to go?”

Startled, Ben wheeled around, practically crushing his nose into the chest of the man behind him. The man glanced down, a soft noise of surprise leaving him.

“Ben?”

Oh god it _was_ him. “Hello, George” Ben squeaked. He felt his face turn red, and dug his nails into the waxy sides of his cup. He wondered whether to front his persona, slip into that flirty/casual demeanor until he can squeeze away. That thought was robbed from him as he glanced down. Sweats, no makeup, hair still damp from the shower. The fantasy was over. _This_ is Ben. All at once the market is too bright, natural sunlight harsh and unforgiving to Ben. He feels exposed, unable to slink into the black lit shadows of the club, where this relationship belonged.

George, by contrast, looked _stunning_. The silver hairs that glow hotly under the strobe lights of the club are actually soft and pure. They dapple his temples nicely, mixing with the dark auburn hair Ben took for brunette all those times. He wore no suit, instead opting for a much handsomer casual ensemble; a soft olive fleece pullover, it's zipper undone enough to see the cream t-shirt beneath. Dark jeans and comfy canvas shoes. Ben swore mentally; of course on the day he looked like this, George would be the essence of farmers market hot.

The ordeal was humiliating enough without the god awful silence that fell between them. Ben almost threw up from nerves by the time George found his voice.

“I...I won't bother you.” He stammered, unease written across his face. Ben nodded silently, taking a sip of his cider. It burnt his tongue---another horrible twist to this day.

“Thank you, really, I--”

“No, no. You don't owe me an explanation. I understand.” He said, a soft smile briefly passing his lips. “Enjoy the rest of your day?” It was a question, an awkward slip into the casual banter they shared at the club, served with a sheepish smile. Ben was grateful for the break in tension. At least he wasn't the only one embarrassed.

“I will! And you as well?” He replied, handing back the same awkwardly playful tone. George let out a sharp exhale in lieu of a laugh, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling.

“I will.”

“Good!”

“Very good”

Ben could hardly remember how they departed; whether George had slipped into the crowd first or if he had taken off on some fast paced strut to the nearest crosswalk. All he could remember was the high pitched whine in his ears, the searing hot flush covering his face and neck, and the positively soul crushing idea of having to face George in the club.

* * *

“Wait, _what?”_ Nate gasped. His disbelief was paused momentarily by a forkful of cherry pie. Ben sat on the floor of their apartment, face in his hands.

“God, it was so _humiliating._ I don't know what happened.” He gushed. The moment seemed to replay over and over, taunting Ben as he picked at his pie. “He was just _there_. And not in some creepy, I-follow-strippers-home way. He was just living his life, and I freaked out.” Ben lay flat on the floor, face practically in the pie tin. “I want to die.”

Nate made a noise of disagreement, scraping cherry filling onto his fork. “So you like him?” He asked. Ben blanched.

“I mean? Does it matter?”

Nate shrugged. “Yeah, possibly. What bothers you most about it? About him seeing you?”

Ben poked at the crumble on top of his pie, watching it slowly get soggy and purple. “The fantasy is ruined.” He sighed. He tried not to think about the looks they shared across the table at the club. All too soon did the house lights come up, and he was sitting in his grungy old sweats.

“Ok, so the fantasy popped. Happens all the time, really. You made some good money before the magic ran out--”

“It wasn't the _money._ ” Ben blurted. He quickly rescinded his statement. “I mean _yes,_ he paid really... _really_ well. And it's gonna suck not having that extra cash…”

“I'm sensing a ‘but’ here”

The heat returned to Ben’s cheeks, and tears pricked at his eyes. “There’s no _but--_ I mean...it's complicated, ok? It's weird and I don't want to talk about it.” He forced himself to eat the pie, having already churned the contents of the tin into purple mush. Nate shrugged, picking up his phone.

“That's cool. I'm putting something on. Parks and Rec or Bob’s?”

“...Bob’s”

* * *

Seven o’clock, Thursday night and nothing seems to fit Ben right. He re applies his makeup twice, and resorts to his back up outfit before hitting the floor. A whole week of pep talks from Nate doesn't quell the sickly dread in his stomach, but diving head first into work helps some. He spends a solid hour flirting around a booth of businessmen, latching onto Alex in an attempt to siphon some of his confidence. Once the crowd is good and tipsy, he slinks away, casually mingling as he takes drinks. His first three lap dances bring some normalcy back to his routine. But still, Ben can't help but glance back at the table George frequents. It's empty.

It's awkward to flirt while nursing his wounded pride, but by God he manages. Ben somehow survives a whole conversation with a mouth breather on forensic glitter. “Did you know that every brand of glitter has a unique structure? If glitter is found at the crime scene, they can trace the manufacture, and the suppliers, to find the victim/killer?” Because that's not a creepy thing to tell a stripper.

The crowd is rowdier than usual, and Ben found himself signaling the bouncer to escort more than a few blitzed suits out of the club, a string of insults hurtled at him for not letting them break the “No touch” rule. The beginnings of a migraine were budding behind his eye, and there’s still...five unholy hours of this night left. He clenched his teeth and barrelled through as many tables as possible, the preset list of pleasantries worn out on his tongue.

His half hour break closed with one of the servers tapping him on the shoulder, telling him that he's been requested for the VIP room. Dread drops like a stone in his gut. That was just fucking perfect. The first time _ever_ he's requested to do a VIP show, and it's one of the lecherous hounds on this horrible night from hell. He downs the last of his cranberry juice, using the full power of his imagination to envision the soothing burn of vodka with it. Fuck sobriety, fuck this night. Time to get his pretty pink cock out and pretend this is the best night of his life.

Ben’s cheeks pinched uncomfortably, his forced smile pushing the limits of his face as he approached the plush door to the VIP room. One deep breath, followed by two quicker ones, and the door was pushed open.

“Oh!”

“Hello, Ben”

The figure is blurred by oncoming tears, but still clear as day. George, back in his suit, seated comfortably on the long plush velvet bench of the room. Ben shut the door quickly behind him, feeling more like a schoolboy sneaking off with a crush than a hired dancer. George smiled,”You look like you're having a rough night. I thought maybe this would help? A little more privacy…”

Ben laughed, wiping away the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes; whether they're from joy or relief he really can't say. “Yes, actually, this helps tremendously.” He joined George on the bench, draping his legs over his lap. He figured now more than ever is a good time to breach the topic.

“So...farmers market.”

George smiled, silently nodding through his thoughts. “Farmers market” he reiterates.

“You looked _good”_ Ben said, looking George up and down. “Classic farmer’s market hot. It's a great aesthetic. Definitely more chic than what I was sporting.”

“ _Chic”_ George chuckled. “I'm sure fleece is far from in style. And to be perfectly honest, you still looked stunning. I've never seen a Yale sweatshirt up close before, and never met someone so fitting to wear it.”

Ben blushed, fiddling with the hem of his tank top. “You're just saying that to spare my feelings. It's cool to admit I'm the gross dude in sweats at the farmers market.”

“I would, but there were at least three other people in grosser sweats, and none as sparkly as yours”

“That stuff just doesn't wash off. I've made my peace with it.” Ben sighed dramatically, prompting a little round of laughter. It felt _good_ . A weight lifted from his shoulders after a week of cringe worthy torment. The feel of George’s hand on his thigh, the way his lap moved under his legs, it was a comforting relief. And, despite his reluctance to admit it, he really did _like_ George. Ben even felt confident enough to believe George liked him back. So, with the two of them alone in the VIP room, Ben resolved to get things started.

Ben slid his legs out of George’s lap, a new song thumping through the speakers of their dimly lit room. “Oh, Ben, you don't have to--don't feel like you _need_ to--”

“I _want_ to”

Ben straddled George, running his hands over his shoulders, dropping them down to rub the width of his chest before creeping all the way up into his hair. He kept it playful, their reliable routine, working George over in preparation for the real surprise. On the floor there was a strict “No Touch” rule; hands stayed at their sides, dancers stayed in their get-ups. But here in the VIP room it was dancer’s discretion. You didn't _have_ to strip nude, but it was a given that everyone did to get the best tips possible; and Ben was feeling bold enough to give it a try.

The hem of his sheer tank top rolled up easily, and Ben tugged it up and over his head in one swift motion, tossing the garment aside. George stiffened, eyes lighting up with gleeful surprise. He parted his lips to speak, but Ben pressed a finger to them, effectively silencing any protests. He let George take him in a while, eyes watching the methodical roll of his stomach or the way his nipples reacted as he felt himself up. Ben let a little gasp slip, pinching his nipple ever so slightly, taking joy in the way George's cock flexed against his ass. If he thought _this_ was good, he had a lot to look forward to.

Turning around, Ben wiggled in his lap as usual, dipping low to show George how perfectly his slender waist and hips fit atop him. He rubbed playfully over the stiff bulge in his pants, humming appreciatively.

And then Ben let his hands travel down, hooking the shiny material of his shorts at the waist. He teased at first, pulling the fabric down just a tad to show off the soft skin. All at once George shifted beneath Ben, feet firmly planted as his attention honed in on this new routine. Ben _craved_ that attention, the sensation of eyes on him and he rocked his hips back and forth. He loved it even more as he tugged hard at the material, slowly slipping it down over his ass, past his knees, and around his ankles, where it was kicked off to the side.

The low throaty moan that escaped George was the best Ben could have hoped for. Sitting pretty in George’s lap, now fully nude (save for the sparkle punk boots he shimmied his shorts over), Ben was willing to relax his rules a little and _enjoy_ George. He flipped back around, landing high on George’s lap, so close that his cock pressed up against George’s stomach. This new routine was thrilling, and it showed, his cock already stiff between them. George went slack, captivated by the way Ben ground up against him, his own hardness aching the longer he watched.

Ben reached down and grabbed George’s hands, placing them on his waist. It was easy to guide him, to hold his palms over George’s knuckles and show him how to graze down his sides. How to reach back and cup his ass, and encourage a squeeze. Each stroke and squeeze George gave him was rewarded with something; a gasp, a giggle, breathless little pants as Ben picked up the pace between them. To his enjoyment, George started to move his hips. Ever so slightly at first, he rolled up to meet Ben’s ass as it came down on him. When Ben responded well, encouraging him to go on, he did-- _wonderfully._

One song bled into two, with Ben rolling over George’s cock with unabashed enthusiasm. Faces pressed close, hips gyrating, their lap dance was quickly devolving into a wanton display, both men eager to feel the other slide up against them.

Ben hit his stride, twisting his hips in such a way that drew gasps from George. His face was flushed, eyes fixed on Ben in a hopelessly lovesick expression as he watched Ben rub all over him. He watched Ben’s cock twitch between them, jaw slack as he indulged in some secret fantasy. Ben wished he would share it. Just say that he wanted to fuck him. That he wanted Ben on his cock, or in his mouth, or in any position at all. The endless flood of possibilities still excited him, carrying his hips away as he imagined a few choice ones for himself:

George, poised over him, holding the backs of his knees.

“Ben”

George, cock out and ready to be sucked as Ben sank to his knees.

“ _Ben”_

George, tongue pressed against his hole, teasing and licking--

“Oh, _God, Ben--”_

Ben snapped from his fantasies, George’s exclamation topped with a deep moan. It took a few seconds, a handful of rocking before he realized that the hardness in George’s pants had retreated. A damp stain was seeping through the fabric. George was flushed, cheeks red and eyes hazy, hands still firm on his waist.

“I…” he was a little breathless. “I'm sure you don't need me to talk about how much I enjoyed that.” Ben smiled, and ran a hand through his hair. George was cute, basking in the afterglow of his orgasm, thumbs tenderly brushing against the soft skin of Ben’s hips. Ben didn't feel the need to rush off his lap, or cover up. In fact he wanted to stay put just a while longer.

In the moments Ben took to catch his breath, George reached into his breast pocket, producing a fold of bills. He pressed it gently into Ben’s palm, and helped curl his fingers tight around it. “Forgive me for presuming, but you do seem like the humble type. Don't protest when you count it, you've earned every cent.”

Curious, Ben unfurled his fingers to examine the fold of bills. A neat stack, with a crisp hundred on top. Ben carefully pressed his thumb to the edge of the stack, flipping through. They were _all_ hundreds. There was _at least_ two grand here. He stared wide eyed, lips moving silently in an attempt to say _something. Anything._

“Yale is expensive.” George said warmly, closing Ben’s fist around the cash once more. “And this job is hard.”

That pang of guilt returned, and Ben thought it best to shoot for it now before accepting any larger gifts from him. “Coffee.”

“What?”

“Let me take you to coffee? My treat?” He asked hopefully. George paused, the question sinking in. Ben wondered for a second if this was ridiculous. If he was just on the wrong end of the fantasy they were living; one where George knew it was an act he paid for, and Ben was the one hopelessly strung along. He felt himself gnawing his lip, fighting the rise of heat coming to his face. Was being naked in his lap _really_ a time to ask this?

Ben’s heart almost burst from his chest when a smile crossed George’s lips. “I’d _love_ to. Perhaps, if you still like talking to me, a museum as well?” He said. Ben’s cheeks pinched from smiling. He was sure he looked ridiculously happy; and maybe that was ok.

“Sounds lovely. And maybe after all of that, of you're up for it, we can finish what I’m not allowed to start in the club…” Ben said, rolling his hips slightly to bring George’s attention back to his half hard cock between them. The fine blush blooming across his cheeks was a promising sign, and an image Ben would be revisiting later tonight in bed.

“You read my mind.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> More benwash prompts/asks can be seen on my tumblr @grumblebee-trilogy. 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated! A big thanks to Tavsancuk for her *amazing* prompt. Her stripper!Ben head canon is finally off the back burner!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Magic Ben](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8582650) by [apollaskywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollaskywalker/pseuds/apollaskywalker)




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